


sand castle

by RosaNautica



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (because what else you do when stuck in a lift), Awkward Boners, Gen, Gossip, Hopefully not too much, Implied M/M, Language, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and some confused feelings, one to be precise, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-23 21:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaNautica/pseuds/RosaNautica
Summary: After a few hours, you see it crumble and if you come back the morning after, you’ll find it washed away by the tide.But for a small moment in time, the sand castle stood solid and real.Or: what happens in the lift, stays in the lift.





	sand castle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Charona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charona/gifts).

> My lucky or not, we’ll see, 13th fic :) I dedicate it to my elevator-stories twin XD (not sure if I would have finished it without your encouragement, thank you, my dear!)
> 
> If you haven’t read "Schrödinger’s cat" by Charona yet, go straight there, folks! One brilliant bit <3
> 
> On a side note (mostly why this fic exists): I’ve been there, too. Unfortunately, the eleven people I was stuck with weren’t F1 drivers, that would’ve been probably a lot funnier, but it was an intriguing character study, nevertheless.

“I have a feeling this whole weekend will be odd.”

“But fun! I mean, _this_ is hilarious!” Lando exclaimed. “Eleven F1 drivers get stuck in a lift – come on, that sounds like beginning of a fricking good joke!”

“Is he like this…”

“All the time? Hell yes,” Carlos sighed between amused and annoyed.

“Miss me much?” Nico nudged him.

“Can’t tell which is worse.”

Yes, they were stuck. It was abrupt: a metallic screech, a thump, a flicker, and they were hanging somewhere in the elevator shaft, immersed in darkness.

“Alright, horror time!” Lando announced, before anyone else could even fully realize what was going on or what to do. Truth to be told, though, they couldn’t really help their situation. “Who has a good story?”

There was a whine from where Carlos was standing, a few others laughed, and George politely raised his hand. Not that there was much competition.

“In Norfolk, we have this story about a hellhound – they call him the Black Shuck,” his voice dropped an octave lower, shadows dancing on his face, illuminated with mobile flashlight for the effect, as he spoke, “he roams around the seaside on the windy winter nights, deranged and starved, foam on his mouth, huge eyes glowing like embers looking out for any lost soul to take to hell with him… You won’t hear him coming, as you walk alone across the lonely fields, his footsteps make no sound at all,” there was something captivating about the way the hushed words were falling slowly from George’s lips into dead silence, “but his howling will turn your blood cold, and one look into those charcoal eyes, as big as the saucers, will bring you…”

A muffled laugh broke the spell.

“Sorry, but… did you really say _saucers_?” Daniel was catching his breath between the giggles.

“What’s so funny?”

“No… nothing, just go on,” Dan waved him off. “It’s hilarious, I wanna hear the end of it…”

God, if George hated him, sometimes…

“Well, go to Blythburgh, Suffolk, they have a church where you can find burned marks on the door where the Shuck dug his claws, as he burst in during a storm, killed people and disappeared with a thunder… Lando, say something,” George turned to his fellow Englishman, losing the ground under his feet. The atmosphere was gone. More people were turning on the lights on their phones.

“Guess there is some church like that… I am from the other coast,” Lando pursed his lips, very helpful, while the Aussie faked a shudder.

“Wow. I’m chilled to the bone. That’s the scariest you’ve got?”

“No, but I didn’t want you to shit your pants. Would be rather inconvenient,” George retorted. Not that it mattered, really, if anyone was frightened by some folk tale, but he didn’t like that sarcasm. At least he tried…

“Nah, he’s more likely to fart,” Valtteri snorted.

“God, yes!” Daniel grinned. “Oh, I miss Lewis here for some nice battle…”

“Sorry, but you’ve got nothing on the Mercedes exhausts.” Bottas’ lesser-known side shone through: he was cackling, crimson creeping up his cheekbones as he tried to keep his act together.

“You must have pretty much developed them in the last two years, then – because back in Singapore I clearly won…”

They were both bent over in guffaws. Dany ran a hand down his face.

“Why am I quite sure my kid is going to be born while I’m stuck here? With you, of all people?”

“Why would you even care? You can’t be there anyways,” Pierre shrugged and the father of three in the group just stared him down and offered a companionable smile to the Russian.

“They will be fine, don’t worry.”

“A little torpedo,” Lando chuckled, “should get out quickly…”

“Shut up, you weren’t even around by that time.” Dany scolded him, as if that meant he had no right whatsoever to use the infamous nickname or make fun of it.

“Do you know what it is, a girl or…”

“Yeah.”

“Ahh, a little princess,” Grosjean smiled dreamily. Classes ’94 and later, plus Nico Hülkenberg, exchanged looks of _“gah, these old men…”_, whereas Checo joined in from his corner:

“Think they will get into F1, or just the W series?”

“I hope my girl won’t be a racer,” the Frenchman crunched up his nose and Daniel rolled his eyes.

“For sake of the future of our sport, we all hope none of your all’s kids will be racers.”

“Wait to see Checo jr.,” the proud father scoffed while Romain raised a finger:

“Watch your mouth, you’re talking to a GPDA director…”

“Who knows for how much longer.” Everyone turned to Valtteri, back to serious. He look nothing like malicious, simply stating a fact. Grosjean’s smile fell.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged.

“Drivers come and go…”

“No, no, no,” Romain stepped forward to him, “what do you _know_?”

“I know that Esteban is _really_ hell-bent on getting a seat next year. And I know Toto isn’t exactly a man of his word, so the guy might want to look elsewhere.”

They could hear the Frenchman gulp down in silence that fell. There was a fair chance that Valtteri had heard about some negotiations between his team and Haas, between Esteban and Haas, something that completely passed Romain by, all caught up in his struggles, at odds with Kev, with Guenther, with everyone… It wasn’t all that shocking. Even in fluorescent light of the phone torches he visibly paled, and he backed off to the wall, to feel some solid support behind his back.

“Alright, this _was _a horror story,” Lando said. “The guy freaks me out for some reason.”

“Who, Ocon?” Nico laughed.

“Look him in the eyes, man, he is… obscure.”

“He’s a dick, that’s all he is. And overrated, for that matter.”

“Says the guy with no single podium in ten years.”

“Saving the best for last,” Nico flashed a grin, and tried to keep the insistent thought that _last _might be closer than he wanted at bay. Pierre, in the meanwhile, continued bashing his countryman.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he ritually murdered the woo-doo dolls of you, guys,” he nodded towards the one present Mercedes driver, “on a daily basis. I think I heard he actually was doing something of sort, in GP2, I think…”

“No, come on…”

Although it most likely was a blatant lie, it hit close to home. Most of them have seen Ocon bouncing around the paddock earlier that day, rather excited about Lewis’ sore throat that was giving him a faint chance of driving a race.

“Plus, he looks like fucking Slenderman, that doesn’t really help…”

“Damn, stop it, now I’m even more freaked out!”

“Even Slenderman’s face would be better than his."

“Slenderman has no face,” Lando reminded.

“No shit! That was the point, thank you.”

“Whoa, wait, he’s whatever you want, but he’s not ugly, come on,” Daniel intervened.

“Definitely not ugly enough for Stroll to possibly stand a chance.”

“No, seriously. He… he just looks _girly_." Romain cringed. "Worse than Britney.”

“There’s nothing worse,” Dany objected.

“Now Nico was a dish, you can’t compare…”

“A… _saucer!_” Daniel spurted.

“Sure he was. It’s in the name,” Hülkenberg confirmed, ridiculously serious.

“Nah, I guess I would be quite crushing on Este if I were a girl,” Charles admitted and Pierre couldn't miss the opportunity to nag at absent Stroll once again:

“You can crush on him as a boy, too, as you can see…”

“Well, once upon a time, girls wanted _a man_, but I guess times are changing…”

“Uhm… Nico. We are barely twenty. We’re talking teen girls here. Dreaming of Netflix actors and I don’t even know what singers… and us. You definitely have a different fanbase.”

“Juicy milfs,” the German smacked smuttily. “Die of envy, pups. Those know how to handle a man…”

“Ugh. Anyone wants to remain in Nico’s fantasies or…”

“No. George, any more funny stories? A big black horse with eyes like frying pans?”

“Hey… what was it about Lance not standing a chance?” George asked instead.

“Truth,” Nico laughed.

“No, I mean…”

“Tell me why would anyone stick with Ocon, otherwise.”

“I… don’t know… he’s funny? Nice? I really don’t know the guy, but… surely there is something to him.”

“You tested for Force India…”

“Yes, well, we didn’t… talk or stuff.”

“See? And that’s it. No benefits from talking to you, no talks. Look: guys, anyone who likes Esteban Ocon, raise your hand now.” Nobody made a slightest move. A triumphant smile stamped on Pierre’s face.

“He’s a tough guy, though, gotta give him that,” Dany said.

“What, for living in the van and all this shit? Another touching Lewis-fashioned story?”

“Hey, it’s real…”

“Look, Seb wasn’t a rich kid neither and I can’t see him rubbing it in everybody’s face. No one had it easy.”

“But some had it super hard.”

Lando was shifting his eyes from one driver to another, feeling like he had no right to be a part of this talk. Especially as Pierre chirped:

“Maybe someone had it easier…”

He looked down and hoped it wasn’t going to be about him, now. It wasn’t his fault, nor his merits, and he didn’t want to answer for it in any way.

“If _someone’s _dad owned a circuit, you mean?”

Lando let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Good. Still Lance. He was starting to feel sorry for the Canadian, and for a moment he wondered if they would be talking about _him _like that, wasn’t he standing right there. Probably not. He might have been well financed, but unlike Lance, he was also one hell of a driver. But still, that thought felt disturbing.

“Jules’ dad owned a circuit, too,” Charles spoke softly, for the first time in a while. “Does that make him any less worthy? Or me?”

“Well, no,” Pierre admitted, suddenly ashamed.

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, Lance beat me on track and that’s the only thing that matters. Now we’re both here – we are _all _here. All together. Because we are the best. And everybody has worked hard for it. Money can’t buy you results.”

Pierre nodded with a small sigh and forced himself to look into the warm chocolate eyes. Charles always saw through him, right underneath that spiky armour only covering up his struggles, frustration and insecurities, Charles understood him with all his moods and tantrums and knew better than to call him out on them. Also now, he was watching Pierre with that tug of smile that was promising: we’ll catch up when we’re out of here, and you’ll tell me what this is _truly _about – and we’ll figure it out. Even if they won’t, it is comforting to know he has someone to talk to.

Lando sent many mental thanks to the Monegasque. He had no clue what he would say if suddenly someone turned against him. Not now, not here. He has gone too soft. He just wanted them all to be friends, at least for this strange moment, leave out all the competitive bullshit and bitterness, and simply be the guys they are deep inside.

“So, you’re telling us Lance is pining after Ocon,” in any case, he returned to previous, more interesting topic, before anyone might think of mentioning his background.

“And that flirt knows it very well. Just that Lance isn’t as stupid as he is after his father, who knows what he is doing and dear Esteban gained nothing.”

“Noo! Think so? Such a gold digger?”

"A seat digger."

"Bet your ass. Let me quote the Renault guy over there: why would anyone stick with Stroll, otherwise?”

“No, okay, that makes sense, but.. Lance, gay? Guys, who had raced with him? Pierre? No, you didn’t…”

“No, just… just Charles, no, in F3?”

“And Alex,” Leclerc added.

“Yeah, well, he’s not really here right now.”

“Yeah. True.”

“So?”

“What? Oh my God, I have no idea,” Charles shook his head. “We never really talked, and definitely not about that!”

“Erm… Checo?”

The Mexican snapped out of daze.

“Yes?”

“Is Lance gay?”

His jaw dropped a little at randomness of the question, then he blinked:

“Our team is all pink, what do you want me to say?” And amidst all the snickering, he huffed: “I feel like idiot. And you don’t laugh,” he playfully squeezed George’s nape, “your car looks like toothpaste.”

“Feels like it’s glued together with toothpaste, too,” George snorted, overwhelmed with relaxed atmosphere.

“No, seriously, think he is?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s just…” Lando scratched his nape, lost for arguments.

“Look, I’ve got some simple maths for you: they say gay people are four percent of population, right? That means one person out of twenty-five. No?” Daniel looked around for support, his distant school years blurred. “Romain, you are an accountant or whatever you are…”

“Well, not quite but yeah, sort of,” the man smirked. “Yes, you’re right.”

“So, we are twenty drivers, plus the reserves… convince me there isn’t a mathematical probability that one of us swings that way. And if I had to bet my seat on one guy, I’d say Lance.”

“Antonio.”

“Lewis.”

“Kevin.”

Each guess was met with more and more horrified stares.

“For your information, he’s getting married, like, next month.”

“So what? Lewis is dating girls, too…”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“He just gives me these vibes, I can’t help it.”

All eyes turned to Valtteri who shrugged noncommittally.

“Not that I am particularly interested in finding out,” he waved a hand with wedding ring. “He loves God and himself, for the rest I don’t know.”

“And his dogs!”

“And his fans that are the best in every single country he goes.”

“And that make him so blessed.”

“And James.”

“Not funny, Pierre.”

“I think it is.”

Valtteri took a decisive breath, but bit his tongue.

“Ridiculous is more the word,” he said. Some guys shifted uncomfortably. That was definitely not where they wanted to go.

“So, basically anyone is gay except for the eleven of us,” Nico summed up, amused. His teammate narrowed his eyes.

“You, then? Better?”

“What? No!”

“See? Then what do you want? Of course it’s not any of us, because then it’s not fun anymore, you know? Because, if he doesn’t have the balls to admit it, there is no point in accusing one another.”

“It’s not accus…”

“No, it is, if it’s seen as an issue, uncomfortable for the guy himself. Because, we are joking here, but… a ga - openly gay F1 driver would… there would actually be one nasty shitstorm. Therefore, as long as no one wants to make a small private elevator coming out, let’s just agree we are all as straight as a die here, because it’s easier that way, because that’s what they want to see and in the twirl of money, sponsors, politics, appearances – stupid macho appearances of this _manly _sport, no one gives two fucks about the needs and feelings of some… mere drivers.”

No one expected such an outburst and it took a minute or two of silence for them to shake it off. Dany was the first to speak up:

“Romain, you know what to bring up at the next GPDA meeting.”

“Obviously. Will be my last meeting anyways. I can say whatever the fuck I want,” he laughed humorlessly and tension hovering above them yet for a while eventually dawned again.

It was an unknown minefield they were tiptoeing across. They occasionally talked together – at drivers’ parades or when there was literally nothing else to do, during boring discussions at the meetings or on some PR appearances, but this was something new, and surely nice and exciting. Yet, they hardly could pretend the world outside stopped existing while they were trapped together. As wonderful as that could’ve been.

Suddenly Mexican accent cut through dense air:

“Fastest drivers in the world. Really. You gossip like bored middle-aged women working in office together.”

“At least our job is fun,” Lando laughed and one would get a feeling that everything in the world, getting stuck in a lift, flying down the straights at 300 kph, is simply fun.

“And we’re not middle-aged,” Pierre added.

“Not all, at least,” George chuckled, nudging Ricciardo’s side.

“Like, thirties are middle age now or what?!” Dan looked at his peers. Romain firmly protested. Nico put on that cheeky smirk saying _“I age like wine…” _Men to his left seemed unconcerned. “Wait, you guys aren’t thirty yet?”

Checo and Valtteri shook their heads.

“How come? Traitors… So, when?”

“January.”

“In a month,” Valtteri shrugged.

“Awesome! We gotta throw a welcome party!” the Aussie grinned, glad he had a way to cheer the colleague up after that poor joke about Mercedes tactics. At least Pierre knew better than to add the “key to success” that has somehow spread in Red Bull, since when Daniel was still there. (He might have had something to do with it.) _Red Bull gives you wings, Silver Arrows give you wingmen. _“It’s cool,” he fist-bumped the Finn’s shoulder, “look at us: you’re gonna get in some good company.”

Valtteri’s skeptically knitted eyebrows were speaking for themselves, but he raised a corner of his mouth a little. Party sounded like a nice idea.

“Finally some good time without having to babysit these kiddos here,” Dan painted him the picture. “We’ll hit the casino…”

“No way, we’re doing this on the lake in Geneva,” Romain informed.

“Captain Grosjean wants to flash his boat?”

“You want to flash your Monte Carlo residence? I’ll tell you a secret: it’s not as cool as you think.”

“Don’t need it to be, I am way more cool myself than you could ever be with residence anywhere in the world.”

“Don’t argue, or I’ll take you to Lapland,” Valtteri butted in.

“What is there?”

“Nothing.”

“Elaborate.”

“Forests, lakes.”

“Geneva, basically,” Romain beamed. “I take that.”

Daniel, feeling defeated, looked for help in Nico, but the German was playing on his phone, clearly with no idea what was going on.

Lando apparently had some problems with silence.

“What do you think, how long would we last if the oxygen stopped flowing?” he wondered and Nico eventually lost it. His knees buckled, skin crawling and throat tightening. Come on, _it __is flowing _and you’ll be out of here in no time, he was trying to tell himself, but his panicking brain wouldn’t listen. The talks became an unintelligible blur, head spinning. His shuddery breath, louder than intended, reached Carlos’s ear; the Spaniard turned to him, suddenly serious.

“Are you okay?”

Nico nodded, because what else could he do? It was obvious he wasn’t okay and saying “just afraid these goddamned walls will squish me while I’ll be suffocating on carbon dioxide” sounded way too dumb. Carlos draped an arm around his shoulders and dropped it as he felt the other man tense even more.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Nico swallowed heavily.

“Oh no,” Dan paled. “Just don’t throw up, please, okay? Do whatever you want, pass out, just… don’t throw up, alright?”

“I’ll try to rather pass out,” Nico crooked what was supposed to be a reassuring smile; his own voice sounded strange to him.

“Nico? Talk to me, hey,” Carlos patted his damp cheek, “what’s wrong?”

“This,” Nico gasped, vaguely gesturing around.

“Are we _that_ awful?” Pierre laughed.

“Oh, you… I had no idea,” Carlos shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe how poorly he knew his teammate. (Ex-teammate. It still felt strange.) After all, it made perfect sense: he thought of Nico’s panicked “get me out” team radio from the last Abu Dhabi race, of his refusal towards the halo system… All fear of being trapped. “Alright… just calm down, okay? Breathe, come on, slowly in… and out…”

“Would be good if he breathed into a paper bag,” Romain suggested.

“Well, if you have one, give it to me and if you don’t, just shut up,” Carlos snapped.

“Chill out, man, he’s just trying to help!”

“He’s not helping unless he’s carrying random paper bags with him. Cause unfortunately, I am not.”

“Chili,” Nico patted his arm before slumping down against the wall, “it’s fine, I… I’ll be good.”

“Guys, you really don’t think at all, do you? At least make some room, come on,” Carlos groaned. Dany, Romain, and Charles backed down, all the drivers squeezing together so that Nico could breathe a bit more freely. Carlos squatted next to him, held shaking hands in his. “Breathe, Nico, it’s okay. See those holes up there? It’s perfectly flowing, and there is absolutely no reason for it to stop… Lando, give me that bottle, will you? Be a bit useful. Here, drink some water,” he brushed back Nico’s disheveled hair, holding the straw to his lips. The German took a few sips. Everybody watched him in quiet concern.

“Huh? What… just talk about something, guys… don’t mind me,” Nico brought out, voice wavering. He needed to steer his thoughts from that absurd fright.

“Imagine if the others were here instead,” Dany snorted. “I think, Lewis would just listen to his music…”

“His, as in _his own _music he thinks he knows how to make,” Dan specified, “standing alone right in this corner…”

“Seb talking to Kimi, Lance would stand alone in that corner, Antonio in that one, Max in the last one - with no one to chatter with in Dutch…”

“Alex in the middle, lost without his rookie buddies,” Lando winked at George.

“Kevin watching himself in the mirror,” his Haas teammate contributed to the picture.

“And poor Robert facing the door, too good for that bunch,” George concluded. “Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

“Valtteri is a stand-up comedian compared to that,” Daniel laughed, at which said Finn didn’t move a muscle. “No, we’re definitely the better half of the grid.”

"And Nico is the best," Charles said, with clear admiration. There seemed to be general agreement.

“Since when are you claustrophobic?”

“I don’t know, since forever?”

“How have I never noticed?!” Carlos wondered aloud.

“Well, thank goodness, I’ve been working on nobody noticing pretty much all my life,” the German laughed dryly, still sounding weak but less strangled. “If you want to drive a F1 car…”

The drivers were astonished. All the jokes about Hulk never getting a podium seemed so lame, suddenly. Damn, every race had to be a little victory for him.

“Whoa. That must feel shitty, when you crash and can’t get ouhhh…” Lando ended up in a chokehold with his mouth covered by Grosjean’s palm.

“You’re not getting out of here, if you don’t stop it _now_,” the other man hissed. Dan clasped his hands together.

“Amen, the director has spoken.”

“The same goes to you,” Romain looked at him, threaten diminished by visibly tired eyes. “Just shut up for one goddamned minute.”

The Aussie raised his hands and stepped back in defense, bumping into George.

“Lance would be in heaven here, I see,” the younger driver remarked, pressed up against Daniel’s back, as someone’s hand slid over his butt.

“Sorry, man, just trying to reach my phone,” Checo laughed right behind his ear, touch of breath sending chills down his nape. George squeezed his eyes shut and took a silent, deep breath.

“Don’t worry, guys,” came Dany’s deep voice, “as we say in Russia: one time doesn’t make you a fag. Go ahead, you’ve got a perfect opportunity here,” he laughed.

“You really say that? Cool!” Lando draped an arm around his teammate’s waist. “My sweet and spicy hot love, this is our day…”

Carlos kissed his hair.

“And our night,” he whispered loudly before letting go, both giggling like idiots.

“McLaren has weird effects on people,” Nico observed from where he was sitting on the floor.

“Jealous much?”

“And if I were?” he cocked his head with something close to a challenging smirk, grateful for any stupid distraction, and stretched long legs, until then pulled up against his chest.

George clenched his fists, fighting the urge to ball them into Daniel’s shirt and pull him even closer. He _was _jealous: of those guys able to have fun of it.

He couldn’t reasonably explain why on earth he wanted to stay sandwiched like that at least forever?!

Like that and more…

Oh… no. _No, no, no… _Come on, just calm down and breathe. Just like Nico. In and out, slowly, steadily. _No._ Fuck. _Don’t think of any "in and out..."_ Fuckfuckfuck. _And back the hell down from poor Danny before he notices_. He made a small step; heel dug into something, there was a yelp and he lifted his foot, losing balance.

“Shit, sorry, I’m sorry,” he stuttered and physically felt the time slowing down as Checo steadied him with both hands on his sides, assuring it was okay.

Much to George’s horror, he physically felt something else as well.

Dim light, heat and sweat, sultry air, too much contact. He couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t.

He felt like crying. Not only such thing never happened to him before, but it had to be in front of ten other guys. He wondered if anyone ever died of embarrassment. Is it scientifically possible?

As much as George wanted to be out of there, he prayed that the elevator wouldn’t move any soon.

Obviously, it did.

In the middle of mingling French-Spanish-English conversations he wasn't listening to anymore, there was a quiet neon buzz and sharp light filled the space. George shoved his hands in the pockets in poor attempt at saving his dignity. Not that anyone was paying much attention to him, anyways: they all watched the numbers change on the floor indicator, or the mirror where they were trying to fix a bit their pitiful flushed, tousled appearances. 

“If it really is the last race here, this was the best goodbye to Hockenheim,” Charles said with a tender smile. Lando grinned.

“We should do this more often. You guys are actually cool!”

“Sure, who cares about loft parties, when we can have a lift?!” Daniel cheered and nearly tripped over as the door he was leaning against started to open.

They parted their ways.

Come tomorrow, they will all get back to their combat mode, recalling bits from their unexpected lift party for a while.

They will congratulate Dany on the “little Torpedo”, and they won’t spread exciting news about Nico Hülkenberg, for which the latter will be very glad.

Ocon won’t read anything into the fit of laughter when the McLaren boys will pass him by in the paddock, apparently discussing the last year Slender Man movie.

George will send his girl a text with many heart emojis the moment he will step out of that steel cage, and try hard to forget the sensation of strong hands above his hips and dirty fascination by sweat trickling down Daniel’s temples to his neck that George, in his lustful haze, craved to lick.

Lance will be leaning on the railing of the truck at drivers’ parade in Hungary, staring into the void, too wrapped up in his loneliness to notice suspicious looks some drivers will aim at him, or Lando’s sympathetic smile; and the Englishman, however, won’t be as interested as to reach out and try to break his walls.

Romain will be eating his nails instead of sleeping for nights to come, counting the odd probability of any other team giving him the chance he’d been given in Haas, gathering up the courage to speak with the boss, knowing deep inside that nothing can speak for him apart from his performance.

Carlos will waste stupid amount of time on useless ponderings about uncomfortable issues, dubious differences between dating and getting married and one beauty so far out of his reach, no matter how close, until he will let it go, as always.

In a month everybody will forget about organizing Valtteri’s “welcome to the 30’s” party, only some colleagues will perhaps send their greetings when the Mercedes congratulations will catch their eye on Instagram.

The heat of the moment will dissipate and again they will be the same eleven persons living each in their own bubble, which won’t pop until the (improbable) next time they’ll get squeezed too close together.

Just, if maybe someone looked really closely, they could find faint traces all over the elevator mirror, which the cleaning lady would wash one day without giving them any thought deeper than _«__Why can’t grown-up people act like grown-up people?!__»_; an hour of sincerity, careless laughs and crumbled barriers, captured by fingertips on condense:

2019 GP - a bunch of idiots was here:

Chili con milk

Hulk

_<strike>Torped </strike>_ DanyK

R8G _aka Mr. GPDA_

George _Russell Terrier_

<strike>_#__proudPINKpanther_</strike> Checo

Daniel _Avocado_

<strike>Valtteri</strike> _ the porridge champ_

Pierre

Charle<strike>s </strike>_ne of Monaco_

->mental guys 4ever! ♥

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> For those who might not know, the Russian saying mentioned by Dany (orig. “один раз - не пидорас”) is a real thing. And I am aware that the Racing Point livery is pink due to the sponsor, but it actually is Lance’s favourite colour :D
> 
> I swear, two people in one day (independently) told me out of the blue that the Williams car looks like a tube of toothpaste. I was mind-blown.
> 
> Old legends literally say the Black Shuck’s eyes are like saucers, and I know it’s a common expression but I can’t help it, it just always cracks me up… and I can quite picture Daniel having similar imagination to mine in this XD (I like the legend and apologize for making fun of it – dear English people out there: no offense, please :) )
> 
> And Valtteri’s sort of giggle attack at the press conference with the famous farts comes a close second after Lando’s recent one, I just had to recall it here :D
> 
> Hope you liked it at least a bit, and I am glad for any polite feedback! :)


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